


Memo to Self

by dotfic



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-08
Updated: 2007-07-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/321842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dotfic/pseuds/dotfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Surrounded</i> and <i>out of ammo</i> were two phrases Dean never enjoyed much separately, and even less put together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memo to Self

**Author's Note:**

> Continuity: SPN season 3 speculation, Doctor Who season 3 (spoilers through the end of SPN season 2, no real spoilers for Doctor Who)  
> 
> 
> a/n: Beta reading, voice tweaking, and enabling services provided by [](http://researchgrrrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**researchgrrrl**](http://researchgrrrl.livejournal.com/).

_Surrounded_ and _out of ammo_ were two phrases Dean never enjoyed much separately, and even less put together. Beside him, Sam shifted his grasp on the iron rod, holding it up like he was a batter at the bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded. The demons hissed and shuffled closer, faces twisting into snarls, claws extending.

He had eight months left, dammit, and nothing was going to take him out this soon, certainly not a bunch of bottom-feeding hellspawn. Dean felt Sam's back bump against his as the circle closed tighter around them in the rock-strewn gully. He kept his shotgun raised even though its chambers were empty -- nothing to lose by bluffing, although intimidation never seemed to work with the little shits. Maybe Sam could disperse enough of them with the iron rod that they could make a break for it.

The gully's shadows deepened as the sun dropped an inch lower, and many eyes flared like cats' caught in headlights.

That was when he heard it. The sound was oddly familiar, like the groaning grind the Impala's engine used to make on icy February mornings when Dad couldn't get the car started. Since they were in a narrow gully with no freakin' way for a car to be there, Dean found the sound strange, but he really, really didn't have time to worry about it right then.

Sam twitched, and Dean glanced back over his shoulder to meet his brother's puzzled look, but Sam's focus snapped back to the demons.

When the big blue box faded into view a few yards away, Dean blinked. He had never seen a police call box in his life, but he could tell this was one because it said "Police Public Call Box" right over the door. Not that he had time to worry about police call boxes that appeared out of nowhere, because, hello, demons.

One rushed in, shrieking; Sam swung and the thing dispersed, forming a stream of black smoke that jerked in the air, finally curling past the call box just as the door opened.

A man with short, messy brown hair stepped out into the path of the demon's smoke trail. He blanched as if mildly surprised, the way someone might react to a fly buzzing in his face. From a deep pocket in his long brown coat he pulled out what looked like a pen flashlight, frowned, and pushed a button. The pen flashed blue with an electronic buzz, and the stream of smoke shot off with the speed of a rocket into the twilight, while the dozen-plus demons let out howls of pain and dispersed. It happened so fast, Dean barely realized they were gone until he saw the trails of their black smoke vanishing up into the fading red glow of the Michigan sky.

"What the--" Sam lowered the iron rod.

"You can come out now," the man called back over his shoulder towards the call box. He had a British accent. Dean supposed English tourists wouldn't be unheard of in the state of Michigan, but it was rare enough to be one more notch of bizarre for the evening.

The call box door opened and a hot chick emerged. Dean thought his luck might be changing if weird blue boxes were going to start appearing out of fuckin' nowhere and produce hot chicks. Lovely dark skin, curvy in the way girls should be curvy, cheekbones that made you glad to be alive. She looked around her sharply, one graceful hand still gripping the door, lingering a moment before she took the last step forward and closed it behind her; not in a timid way, but measuring, cautious.

Her gaze found Dean's. He smiled his best _hello, there, I'm completely and totally available and all yours_ smile. She lifted her eyebrows in a friendly way, her gaze assessing him up and down.

Then she glanced at Sam, who actually got a smile out of her. Which seemed kind of unfair.

"Ah, hello." The weird British guy strode towards them. In the half-light, Dean saw he was wearing pinstripe slacks and scuffed high-top Chucks. He tucked the pen-thing away and when his glance slid from Dean to Sam, the abstracted, polite expression focused into purpose.

As he reached into another pocket of his coat, Dean remembered where he was and who he was, and raised the shotgun. "Hey," he said, sharp and gruff, a warning.

The weird British guy paused, then kept reaching into his coat, although he held his other hand up, palm flat. "You might want to put that down, there's a good lad, and aren't you out of iron shot anyway?" He peered over the top of his dark-rimmed glasses at Dean, lips pursing.

Dean lowered the gun, and the weird British guy pulled out an ordinary white envelope and held it out to Sam, who stared down at it, face comically blank. His forehead creased deeper than Dean had ever seen it crease.

"Oh, just take, it," the weird British guy sighed, his whole body getting into it. "It's not _poisoned._ It's just a letter, you know, words scribbled on a bit of paper, folded up neat, just so, and tucked inside. I'm sure the glue must have -- or will, rather -- taste nasty, it always does, although on Petros 7, the glue tastes like buttered rum. Marvelous idea, don't know why they don't do that on earth."

"Actually, they do," the hot chick said. "I mean, mint-flavored. It's hard to find. You can get it at Christmas."

"Oh, I see," he answered, like this was fascinating, and investigating it was the next thing on his to-do list. Then his attention switched back to Sam. "Look at the handwriting."

Sam looked down. "It's. It's mine."

"Yes, that's right, Sam Winchester. You asked me to hand deliver this, as a matter of fact; of course you wouldn't know that, because it hasn't happened yet and I'm afraid I can't say more than that. Time travel...well, it's sort of _slippery-slidey_." He grimaced.

Meanwhile, Dean had gotten close enough to the hot chick that he could have reached out and brushed back the stray wisps of the dark hair that fell loose against the smooth curve of her cheek, if he wanted to. Which he did.

But the weird British guy grabbed her arm, pulling her back towards the call box. "Sorry, must dash, read the letter, Sam."

The girl gave him an apologetic smile, all white teeth and sunshine in the gloom, before the door closed and the whirring, grinding noise started up again. The big blue box faded away until it was like it had never been.

Okay. _That_ had been random.

"What in the what?" Dean said into the silence.

Sam let the iron rod drop to the ground. Dean picked up his flashlight and aimed it at the envelope. Yeah, the lettering did look familiar. Sam had -- or would someday soon, apparently -- write it in all caps, as if afraid the name would be lost, the message misdirected. It was underlined twice, emphatic and messy, like he would write it in a car doing eighty over a dirt road.

Which, knowing them, was possible.

Shit. Maybe he was having a nightmare.

"Don't look at me, man," Dean said off Sam's look. "You wrote it." He looked up at the fading sky, then back the way they'd come. It would be a difficult hike even with the flashlights. They should probably get started. "C'mon, you can read it in the car."

* * *

Sam sat on the passenger side, door open with the overhead light spilling out past him onto the ground, head bent over the creased sheet of paper. Dean stood outside the car and tapped his fingers on the roof a few times, shifted position, kicked the toe of his boot into the grass, and finally gave up.

"Well?"

Sam lowered the paper, swallowed; in the car light Dean could actually see the blood draining from his face.

"Jesus, Sam. What?"

"It's a letter from me...to me, warning me not to unleash some kind of demonic virus that gets rid of all the evil stuff, not just demons, but ghosts, monsters...all of it. Because while that wipes out the demons, it also makes the world, uh, fall apart."

Dean's hand fisted on the roof of the Impala. "Whaddya mean, 'fall apart'?"

"I mean literally. Gravity starting to unravel. It explains it in here --" Sam smacked the letter against the edge of the car door. "But it's kind of confusing. It has to do with the balance keeping the world together. So with all the demons and evil stuff gone, the balance gets lost and out of whack. And the world starts to...fly apart. Slowly, a little at a time. Chunks breaking off and going off into space."

"The fuck. That makes no sense."

"It's my _handwriting_." He looked up, eyes bleak, a plea in his face. "The letter's dated October. Maybe I figured -- will figure -- out in the next couple of months that the way to get you out of this deal is if there's no demon to have a deal _with_."

His head started to hurt. Dean walked around the car, yanked open the driver's side door, got in, slammed it closed after him. Sam folded his legs into the car and shut the passenger side door.

Dean started the engine, concentrating on the familiar rumble of it.

"Oh, and demons are alien in origin," Sam added.

"I need a beer," Dean said. "Or seven."

Sam tucked the letter away into his backpack, and they drove for a while in silence. The stars had come out; Dean glanced up at them through the windshield, and tried not to think about much of anything.

A few miles unspooled beneath them.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"What's a police call box?"


End file.
